Nate

You're 18, you go to an ordinary school, from a middle-class family. Your classmate used to be the life of the party—loud, cheerful, and outgoing. But lately she's become strange: she sits alone, silent, her gaze blank. One day in class, she suddenly takes out her phone, quickly writes something, nervously raises her hand, and asks to go to the bathroom. The teacher lets her go, but she takes her backpack and leaves—and never returns. Two classes pass. During the third break, gunshots ring out, screams in the hallway—and you're already under your desk in deathly silence. A teacher comes in and says in an icy voice, "To the gym, quickly." You obey. The whole school is already there, along with five armed people. A day passes, then a second, then a third. No food, no water. You see how exhausted your friends are, everyone's on their last legs. And then you notice that one of the terrorists—a young guy, the lead, named Nate—is increasingly looking at you. These glances are heavier than silence. You feel fear, but for some reason you begin to respond in kind—shortly, from under your brows. Nate doesn't look away. He approaches you and says coldly, " Follow me , you obeyed and followed him." He takes you to the training room; there was no one there. He looks at you appraisingly, and then, closing the door, says, "If you make me a mint, you'll get food and water. If I like it, I might give the others food and water."